


A Dance on the Floorboards

by stele3



Series: The Tether Series [7]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Disassociation, F/F, Gen, M/M, Silver is THE unreliable narrator, Smallpox, illness recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: Silver waits to see the window closed behind Erik then turns and thumps back into the front parlor. His heart is racing, but a strange kind of calm washes over him. He’d known all along that this would happen. He’d told them that it would. At the very least he can reassure himself that he did not lie about this.Thomas has followed him out of the bedroom and hovers near his elbow. “John. Who is it?”“You should have asked me sooner.” And the laudanum really would have been kinder.Picking a knife up from the table, he turns and takes Thomas by the arm. Presses the edge of the blade to the side of his throat. Thomas twitches, frowning, then stills when Silver grips his arm hard enough to bruise.AN: I had hoped to have this done for the anniversary week but didn't quite make that deadline.As always, I am a white, abled-bodied, non-Jewish person who is writing about nonwhite, disabled, Jewish characters. Please let me know if I fuck up in any way.





	A Dance on the Floorboards

_~Philadelphia, July 1723_

 

Silver wakes with an unfamiliar shout in his mouth, words that he remembered while dreaming but cannot translate in the waking world. Flint’s hand rests on his shoulder and the other on the side of his neck, telling him that all is well, but the dream hangs over Silver’s eyes like a sheet of water, distorting Flint’s features to something alien, someone (hopefully) long dead, and Silver squirms away.

He settles on the foot of the bed. Beside Flint, Thomas is stirring, rolling over and blinking awake. Silver wants to bid him back to sleep, but he thinks if he opens his mouth at this moment, the thundering of his heart will echo out and rattle the very walls.

Instead he avoids Flint’s gaze and picks at the scabs on his legs. (What languages does Flint speak? Does he know what Silver was yelling? Is he going to tell Thomas?) The pox has dried and faded to hard, blackened flakes of skin that he is all too eager to be rid of, no matter how many times Flint strikes his hands away.

He does not do so now (does that mean he heard something?), though he sighs pointedly. “It’s all right,” he says to Thomas. Words, which have always been Silver’s most reliable companions, have proven fickle of late: he can’t draw enough breath to make them sound convincing.

Another sigh and then Flint heaves himself out of bed. He’s taken to wearing underdrawers to bed; his bare shoulders are speckled from the sun, but as he stretches his arms to the ceiling, the bloomers dip low over his pale, pale belly. Silver feels desire curl up tight as a pillbug hiding underneath its rock. He works his fingernail around a particularly large scab, feeling whether it can be plucked free without causing him to bleed.

“Mmmnh,” Thomas moans. “What time is it?”

“Morning,” Flint replies unnecessarily. From the light leaking through the small window that faces into the small alley between their row of houses and the next, it must be just past dawn. Shucking his underdrawers (or perhaps they were Thomas’ underdrawers at some point? They are all three of them stitched together, a single whole split into thirds by calamity), he pads fully nude over to the basin and begins to scrub down. Silver wants to squeeze the shockingly white skin of his buttocks, but that would mean getting up and grabbing his crutch.

Instead he transfers his attention to a new scab. The other has come free and left a pale divot on his flesh. One of many, he presumes.

“Ungh.” Thomas sits up, putting his back to the headboard. “Darling, I really must protest this amount of nudity so early in the morning.”

Underneath the array of freckles, Flint blushes pink but casts Thomas an arch glance. “You, protesting my nudity? Have you taken fever after all?”

“I am in complete control of my senses, James, and if you have no intent of returning to bed then I must ask that you cover yourself or I shall not be held responsible for…dragging you back to bed.” Thomas pauses midway through the sentence to yawn.

“Well, in the interests of preserving my virtue.” Flint plucks a shirt from the stack of clothes set next to the basin and pulls it on. Silver wants to protest the disappearance of all those freckles and white-pink skin but can’t be sure that the words would come out in English, or even as _Silver_.

Flint dresses, then leans back across the bed as Thomas sits up to reach him. From the far side of their twisted sea of sheets, Silver watches their lips meet and press. As they part, they smile at each other, and Flint leans back in briefly to touch their foreheads together before he straightens away.

He turns to Silver with that same smile on his face. Silver wants to rip his eyes out. Wants to scream at him. How dare he give Silver this much tenderness and consideration? Thomas, he could bear, but Flint being so careful with him is…intolerable. He should know better. It has to stop.

Instead of moving them towards that end, Silver reaches up to curl his fingers into Flint’s hair. It’s long, again, longer even than when they first met. (They keep trading, he and Flint: whenever one of them grows into a longshanks, the other is shorn. Is that strange?) It slides through Silver’s fingers, fine and soft. His lips taste like nothing but skin. Silver kisses him and kisses him. He can’t even say what he’s trying to taste, only that he’s desperate for it.

At length he manages to stop and take his hands away. A faint line is drawn between Flint’s eyes but he steps away, lifting his coat from its hook on the door. “I will be late. Thomas, if you have time…”

“The tailor, I know. We shall have the measurements ready.”

Flint grunts and then he is gone. Silver sits with his hands in his lap, flexing each one of his fingers individually, then knitting them together.

A rustle of sheets as Thomas rises as well. He wears Flint’s nightshirt trailing over his long legs. A red mark on his right knee; Silver can’t think of where he got it, but by the time he thinks to ask, Thomas has already wandered out of the room.

That leaves Silver alone in the bedroom and he exhales long and slow, wanting nothing more than to curl up and close his eyes. Not to sleep, just not…fight. _I have never known one of your people who was not a fighter_ , but Long John Silver has no people. He is no one from nowhere.

Eventually the prickling fear of being alone with his thoughts drives him from the bed and he tracks Thomas into the kitchen. He’s standing at the long, narrow table in the center of the room, chopping vegetables. The very sight of him fills Silver with unspeakable emotion and he lurches forward to plaster himself against Thomas’ back, desperate to defile him.  

With a blur of unspoken pushing and pulling, Silver winds up on his knees, with Thomas’ nightshirt rucked up by his hands. He takes Thomas’ cock in his mouth like the first bite of shark meat after the doldrums. It feels right. The truth is, where other people have a beating heart, Silver carries a leech in his chest: a cold, writhing creature that feeds and feeds and is never satisfied.

The truth is, when the last drop of laudanum had passed over his lips in that sweltering room in the Blue Anchor Inn, Silver had been more relieved than afraid. This, finally, surely, must prove that he truly loves them all—Flint, Thomas, Marielena with her crooked nose, Rebekah and her knowing eyes, little Erik—for this was a selfless act, and was that not the only way to truly show that you loved someone? (Is it?) There was nothing for him to gain by this act, no treasure, no regard, no advantage to suck from the marrow of those who possess real hearts and, for reasons fathomable only to them, had chosen to grant him access. There was always an advantage to be gained: Flint’s reluctance to kill him on Skeleton Island, Madi’s intervention with her mother in the Maroon camp, Thomas’ advocacy on Silver’s behalf, the crew…oh, the crew.

The leech must be fed and nothing tastes sweeter than love.

Madi had known, had even sought to absolve him of his shame, until the leech had taken too much and she’d regretted her kindness; but by then its teeth had latched, only to be ripped out and flung away by force. (And still it longs for the taste of her.)

And now here he is, alive, on his knees in Flint’s kitchen, suckling at a different life that does not belong to him.

If he loved them the way they all deserve, he would be long quit of this place. He should have left after they rescued Erik from the pirates, when first he put his name forth as a warning, but he had delayed and delayed, and only the arrival of a sharp fever and telltale macules on his gums had put spurs to his sides. Now, in their absence, he dallies longer.

Thomas comes in his mouth, salt-sour coat to Silver’s tongue. He swallows it down and sits back to wipe his mouth. Lips wet with his own saliva. He smacks them together and the sound is unexpectedly loud. Thomas laughs. (Why? Oh, the sound.) Silver smiles for him. Thomas is—not sweet, he has sharp edges, too, but he is _good_.

So much better than Silver.

“Mmm, thank you.” Tug at his scalp. “Shall I return the favor now or later?”

It takes Silver a moment to realize that he’s not even hard. He shrugs, hoping that Thomas won’t notice. He does, of course, and a frown draws his eyebrows together. Silver closes his eyes. He’d wanted to make Thomas feel good, why does his own body have to enter into the question? Can’t he simply offer his mouth and body to the men he loves without being found inadequate in some way?

“Hm, later, then.” There’s a rustle of fabric and then Thomas’ lips touch his. Granting absolution. (Is that how Christians do it? Judas the traitor kissed Christ to betray him. Did Christ kiss back?) “Go sit at the table, I’ll cook some eggs.”

He moves away to gather things about the kitchen. A soft, musical hum. Silver looks down at his knees resting on the wooden floor. Leather strip on the floor near him; Flint has been using pieces like that to tie back his hair. Silver picks first it then himself up and goes out to sit at the table, threading the leather strip between his fingers then tugging it out again.

They eat. The eggs are thick on Silver’s tongue, mingling with the lingering taste of seed and making it difficult to swallow. His throat is still tender from the macules. He wonders what permanent damage has been done to his body now—he has heard of people going blind from the pox, losing their mental faculties. He wonders if Thomas and Flint would have kept him, cared for him, loved him even if he’d been struck blind and idiotic; he thinks they likely would have, and the thought makes him push the rest of his breakfast away.

Afterwards Thomas drives him out of his dark mood into the bedroom upstairs, where he and Flint stored all of their clothes that had been boiled and sanitized. They haven’t much left: not much was worth saving and the pieces that weren’t have long since been converted to rags, used to wipe the pus and sweat and shit from Silver’s mangled body.

They still haven’t let him see a mirror. He imagines that he must be pitted terribly, scarred like Israel—and upon thinking that name he thinks of absolutely nothing for a few moments, as though he can cease existing if he makes his thoughts still enough, until Thomas puts a waistcoat in his hands and asks him to try it on.

Together they sort through the pile of clothes that hitherto had sat in the corner of the bedroom belonging to Marielena and Rebekah. Their room is much larger than the one downstairs. Clearly Thomas and James had not planned on welcoming a third person to their bed when they first settled here. (Would they have, eventually? Is that somehow in Flint’s nature? Flint had been a living ghost between he and Madi—Silver can see, now, how much time he’d dedicated to the subject of Flint in conversations that he should have spent learning Madi’s mind, for perhaps then he would have found some way of ending the war without ending their marriage.)

There is a feather on the floor of the room, small and white, and Silver wanders over to pick it up, turning it in his hands.

They carry the clothes downstairs and return them to their rightful place in the wardrobe and dresser drawers. They have: two pairs of bloomers, four pairs of breeches, one pair of full trousers, two shirts, five stockings, two waistcoats, a great coat, two Monmouth caps (Silver imagines Flint wearing one and can’t help but smile), and the battered blue coat that Silver had been wearing when he first arrived here. He’s rather surprised, having believed it misplaced some time ago.

Seeing his look, Thomas smiles. “It wanted for some repair,” he explains, touching the places where the various calamities of Silver’s life had left their mark on the cloth. A slash here, a bullet there. He’s surprised all over again to see it so neatly salvaged.

“Thank you.”

“Thank Marielena and James. I’ve no eyes for sewing, anymore.”

The small white feather is still in Silver’s hand. He’d meant to put it down on the bed, to be restuffed in a pillow, but he must have forgotten. He puts it down on the small table next to the basin. Occasionally Silver will see Thomas in the movement of his own hands, a mimicry of the silent language between Thomas and Rebekah. He wonders what other scraps he has sown onto himself and from whom.

Flint comes home early. He stands in the doorway with the sunlight on his hair and smiles broadly at them both. Silver thrills to it. Even before he fully understood the nature of his relationship with Flint (does he? does he fully understand, even now? _does he fucking really?_ ) Silver knew that he craved Flint’s attention, his regard. Now he has it all the time and instead of growing inured, it strikes him anew every time Flint walks in the fucking room. Thomas is easy to love: clever, kind, slyly funny in a way to match Silver. Flint is…not easy.

He’s staring. Silver takes his eyes back and picks at a crack in his teacup. He knows, distantly, that there’s something wrong with him. Perhaps the pox really did turn him into an idiot and this is what that feels like. He’s yet to start drooling, at least, but he is not quite… _present_ in a way that he’s never experienced before. (This is a lie.) It’s far easier to examine Flint and Thomas, the former being a familiar subject. The fucking _hours_ that he has spent in contemplation of Flint do not bear repeating aloud, and so he repeats them in silence.

At the moment, Flint is nearly buoyant with happiness. He has always been so after cheating death: Silver vividly remembers staring across a lake as Flint strode through a field of carnage like a god of war. This time, of course, it’s Silver who Flint has wrestled from Death. In sickness as in battle there is a certain savagery and dissolution of order, the civilized code abandoned in favor of whatever keeps one alive for another day, another moment. They have all three of them been crouched like combatants enduring a siege and it is in these moments of dark necessity that Flint thrives. He fucking _blossoms_.

Silver wishes to fuck that he could have known Flint when he truly was James McGraw…but that’s a lie, too, isn’t it? He was always Flint. How strange he must have seemed to Lord and Lady Hamilton: a creature half-formed, denying his nature. A different kind of violence that was performed entirely against his own self.

He’s so deep in his own thoughts that at first Silver doesn’t even notice the clatter outside; that belongs to a separate world, one which he expected never to re-enter. Flint looks up, though, and after a moment so does Thomas. Only once Erik bursts through the front door does Silver snap to attention.

“Sir! Mr. Hamilton, sir—sorry, it’s just me, sorry, I took Benjamin home.”

“What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir, but Ms. Marielena came to the shop.” Erik hobbles forward, his gaze landing on Silver. “She said that some men came to the tavern looking for Mr. Barlow. Not by name, you see, but she said they described you at length—your hair, your leg.”

A hand of cold fingers spreads in Silver’s guts and slowly, slowly closes, twisting. He does not speak, though; it’s Flint, rising from his chair with the beginning of a darkness on his brow, who asks, “What kind of men?”

(There was always another possibility, of course—he needn’t leave with Flint here. He’d told Silver himself: _we’ll kill them, too_. Captain Flint and Long John Silver, setting Philadelphia ablaze. Never mind the blood that will follow them home to their door and paint the walls, the nightmares that will rouse Flint, the hell that will poison the goodness here. He recognized the promise—the threat—of that possibility and the way it would destroy everything and everyone who loves him in this place, and still he did not leave.)

Silver braces his hands on his knees and breathes, staring at the floor and resisting the urge to put his head between his knees. He doesn’t have time now, there is no _time_ —taking his crutch in hand, he hefts himself to his feet. Thomas rises with him, his eyes on Silver’s face. Erik is telling Flint about the men, freemen? (Madi? If they came from Madi then he would much prefer to lie down in the muddy avenues to let them cut his throat. But no, Madi would have come to kill him herself—and G-d, what if she _is_ here?)

“Was there a woman with them?” Silver asks before he can stop himself. But he must know—his heart leaps at the idea of seeing her again, even if she only gives him one glimpse before she shoots him in the head.

“No, sir, just the freedmen. There were three who came to the tavern, but she thought there might have been others outside.”

“Why would they have come from Madi?” Flint demands, his eyes narrow.

Silver leans against the table, pressing his fist against the surface as he shakes his head. If she isn’t here then it does no good to explain. “Is Marielena outside?”

“No, sir, she went to Mr. Aaron’s house.”

There’s that, at least. Rebekah is at Mr. Aaron’s house; she’ll see to Marielena. Flint will see to Thomas and Erik, if Silver can only convince him to do so properly. He could—he’ll say that he needs to slip away for a spell, that these men came from Madi on some business. Wait, no, he told Thomas about Bristol, and Thomas will surely have told Flint. He’ll say that they work at a smithy, to whom he owes payment, that he must go meet with their employer to settle his account now that he’s feeling well enough. Flint will want to go with him but must be dissuaded somehow. He must go, now, at once, he must open his mouth and tell them these lies so that they will let him go while there is still time, unless—

Unless, of course, these men followed Marielena to Flint’s shop, and then Erik to their home.

Flint must have the same thought, for he pulls Erik into the bedroom, speaking to him in a low voice as he goes. There’s a little window to the right of their bed, too small for the rest of them but just big enough that Erik can wriggle out to the alley between their row of bandbox homes and the next. Flint boosts him out then pushes his crutch through after him.

Silver waits to see the window closed behind Erik then turns and thumps back into the front parlor. His heart is racing, but a strange kind of calm washes over him. He’d known all along that this would happen. He’d told them that it would. At the very least he can reassure himself that he did not lie about _this_.

Thomas has followed him out of the bedroom and hovers near his elbow. “John. Who is it?”

“You should have asked me sooner.” And the laudanum really would have been kinder.

Picking a knife up from the table, he turns and takes Thomas by the arm. Presses the edge of the blade to the side of his throat. Thomas twitches, frowning, then stills when Silver grips his arm hard enough to bruise.

Long John Silver is a different creature than John Silver. He is rot and the slow rise of a tide, lapping first at a man’s ankles then his calves, his knees, tickling the underside of his balls, sliding steadily up up up to his neck, inevitable, the death that you see coming but never escape.

Looking past Thomas’ shoulder, Long John Silver smiles at Flint, who stands frozen in the doorway to the bedroom, and says, _Would you be so kind as to fetch the rope from the cupboard? Do it, and I won’t cut his throat._

Thomas does not move. Flint’s eyes drop to the knife then fix on Silver’s face. “What do you think you’re doing,” he says flatly. It is not a question.

 _The rope, please. I haven’t long_.

 “Don’t do this,” Flint says. He looks the same way he did on Skeleton Island, on the other side of a pistol: more sad than angry, which is significant given the towering rage that Flint carried (carries) around with him.

_I came here to do exactly this. I even told you so—a shame, truly, that you did not listen. But you have always believed of me that what you wanted, in defiance of the reality before you. Your capacity for delusion remains extraordinary._

“I don’t believe you.” But there is a glimmer, a crack in the soft underbelly of Flint’s certainty. They have been here before, after all.

_Captain. All I have to do is move my wrist. Get the rope, now._

From the other side of the room, there’s a creak and a click. He darts a glance in that direction just as someone bodily throws their weight against the door. Erik must have latched it, but it will not withstand much further assault.

 _Fuck_. They’re already here. He has to—if he goes out the front door, maybe they won’t even bother to come inside. Maybe they’ll simply shoot him and then run. _Back up_ , he tells Thomas, trying to steer him towards the back hallway and Flint. Thomas, for once, actually obeys…but then when Silver tries to pull away and break for the door, Flint clamps a hand on the front of his shirt.

It feels as though Silver’s body is disintegrating. He shows his teeth to Flint, the tip of the knife at his throat, now. _You fool. You fucking idiot. I only came here for the chest, don’t you—that was why, because I knew you’d be stupid enough to trust me again—_

“Then cut my throat and be done with it,” Flint snarls. He presses forward and Silver has to give ground, stumbling as the back of his knee encounters a chair, so as not to let the tip of the knife sink in. It does, a little, and it takes everything he has to hold on instead of flinging the offending blade away. A little blood trickles over Flint’s collarbone; his eyes flash and he twists sideways, easily taking the weapon from Silver’s unsteady hand.

Silver wants to laugh. He wants to scream. Here, then, are the fruits of his labor: two men willing to fling themselves between him and a well-deserved bullet. Oh, how diligently the leech feeds. “Let me go.” (They’re striking the door again, G-d please, not this—) “They’ll fucking kill you both, just let me—”

Flint has shifted his grip on the blade, clearly readying for a fight; but then he looks up and stiffens. “ _Thomas—_ ”

It’s too late: Thomas is at the door and opening it.

“What the devil are you doing?” he demands. It is exactly the kind of voice an Earl would use to chastise an errant servant. “Put that away at once, you’ll have the whole fort across the river after us. Put your weapons away and come inside, quickly.”

Stepping back, he gestures sharply into the room. After a moment, the sunlight beside him shifts as a man enters. It’s—

“Julius,” Flint says aloud.

Julius stills, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dark inside the house. Two other men, dark-skinned and armed, follow him inside. Thomas shuts the door behind them.

“Captain Flint,” Julius says, his eyes moving over them. He notes but does not greet Silver.

Silver’s knee gives out and he nearly goes to the floor. Flint, of course, catches him and shoves him into a chair. Silver wants to tell him to let go, to run, but he suddenly can’t speak. He can barely breathe.

Pacing back to the center of the room and casually placing himself between Julius and Flint and Silver, Thomas addresses Silver in a stern voice. “I assume these are your associates. I should warn you, Mr. Silver, they look quite ready to do you in—and I am very nearly ready to let them. Pray do not test my patience on the matter any further.”

Silver blinks at him dumbly, but his mind (no, not his mind, the fucking leech, wriggling to find a way out) is already catching up. Behind Thomas, Julius and his two bravos are visibly re-evaluating the scene, the scene being thus: James, with a knife in one hand and the other gripping Silver’s shirt, bleeding at the throat; Silver, pale and disheveled, pox-marked; Thomas, his shoulders back and—Christ, he’s wearing Silver’s jacket. He’s _wearing Silver’s jacket_ , when did he even put that on? _Why_ did he put that on? It looks absurd on him. (Of course it looks absurd. He’s an earl, wearing a coat that has more stitches than fabric. _That_ is why.)

“Julius,” Flint growls. “What—?”

“Be still,” Thomas orders curtly, before he says to Julius, “I hope you have a lookout, in case your display drew eyes.”

Julius is clearly no fool, for he neither confirms nor denies. “Who are you?”

“Lord Thomas Hamilton,” Thomas answers, turning to offer his hand. “Fourth Earl of Ashbourne, former Lord Proprietor of the Nassau Islands.” Julius does not return the handshake—doing so would mean shifting his pistol grip—and after a moment Thomas _tsks_ very softly and lets his hand drop. “I assume that you’re here in pursuit of the same treasure that Mr. Silver was placed in charge of procuring.”

“Placed by who? You, or you?” Julius jerks his chin at first Thomas then Flint, his eyes sharp.

There is, Silver thinks, a rather delusional mindset that has plagued them all, a belief that changing one’s name and geographical location and other details of that nature can create an entirely new person. James himself claimed at one point that the persona of Captain Flint was never intended to last longer than necessity—but _he_ is Captain Flint, and attempts to act otherwise, to hide his black rage from Thomas, has only served to keep them at a distance from one another. (Silver, of course, is no one.)

Here then, is the threshold, the moment in which they meet: Sir Thomas Hamilton, Earl of Ashbourne, and Captain Flint.

“I serve at the pleasure of the Earl,” Flint says, and turns his grip in Silver’s shirt. (It’s Thomas’ shirt.)

Silver dangles from the end of Flint’s hand like a puppet, string-cut and silent. He can’t think. He can’t _think_.

Lord Hamilton is saying, “—assume that Mr. Silver made certain… _promises_ in order to secure your agreement to his plan? If you are indeed the source of the letter?”

“There was no plan,” Julius says, his expression stoic. He is looking around the room. Noting the bath shoved into the corner. Deciding whether or not to kill all of them outright. Thomas is standing right there in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back and his chest exposed. He is still talking, weaving a story of how his former man in Nassau (Flint? He must mean Flint) had been contacted by Silver with the promise of riches beyond belief, a way to buy back his place in Society.

It isn’t working. Julius might find the story somewhat credible (it’s even halfway true) but it would still be easier for him to simply kill them all and take the chest. Silver finds his tongue, says, “If I may—”

Thomas looks at Flint, makes a sharp, irritated gesture. The hand on Silver’s shirt twists and Flint backhands him across the face. It’s a bright, humiliating shock and only after it’s passed does he remember the knife held in Flint’s hand. Somehow, the blade hadn’t touched Silver’s skin.

“As I was saying,” Lord Hamilton continues. “I find sympathy for your situation. I do admit that once Silver confessed the way he’d come about the letter, I considered going directly to the governor and casting myself on his mercies, whatever price I might have to pay for said mercies, but perhaps we needn’t involve such complexities. Perhaps we can come to an agreement, as rational, honest men.”

Julius regards Lord Hamilton as one might examine a snake whose venom has not yet been appraised. “Is that what you believe yourself to be?”

“‘Never esteem anything as of advantage to you that would make you break your word or lose your self-respect,’” Thomas says by way of reply, accompanied by a polite smile. “Also, you have guns. You may think that gives you an advantage, but I warrant that if you use them, you’ll find yourself brought before the governor under a very different context. You’ll find that these walls are very thin. Now, what did Silver promise you?”

Julius’ eyes slide over to Silver. “Half,” he finally answers.

An irritated hiss passes through Lord Hamilton’s teeth. “Ah. Of course. Well.” He turns to Flint and gestures toward the bedroom. “Go and find it, then. I expect he’s got it tucked away somewhere, the snake.”

Flint straightens slowly. Julius’ men stand at his back. (The one on the right clearly doesn’t speak English.) They all three have guns, and if Flint leaves the room they won’t even have the knife.

Lord Hamilton looks at Captain Flint. It is a glance that takes the breath away; Silver has seen Flint use it on the crew and oh, oh, he suddenly knows where Flint learned how to look at a man that way.

Flint goes. There’s a series of thumps from the bedroom, the sound of a bed being pushed aside. Silver sits in his chair. (The man on Julius’ left is glaring at Silver and fingering his gun with an obvious desire. Who is he? Silver can’t place his face. Oh, yes, the greedy lieutenant.) His own temple throbs and Silver presses a hand to it. His fingers come away with another pox scab.

In Yoruba, Julius says to him, <”You’ve been visited by Father Shopona.”> When Silver lifts his head, Julius glances at Thomas. <”I would say that you are lucky to be alive, but perhaps not.”>

<”Not lucky,”> Silver replies, thinking of a small bottle. He wets his lips. <”Julius—”>

Someone knocks on the door. Sharp, staccato. Four even blows.

They all freeze in the briefest pause, and then: “Ah, thank God, that will be the rest of our company, I sent my maid to fetch them.” Thomas crosses to the door, pausing only briefly along the way to cast a critical eye over Julius and his followers, who have reflexively withdrawn to a corner of the room and look braced to explode into violence at any moment. “ _Please_ do not point weapons at any of them, some of us do have to maintain our good standing in the city, if only to provide cover for the rest of you.”

“Who is it?” Julius demands, though he does slide his pistol around the edge of his hip, out of sight.

Instead of answering, Thomas takes the last few steps toward the door and opens it.

“ _Sábado shalom_ ,” Rebekah says. She’s wearing her special dress, white and glittering like armor in the sunlight. Behind her is Marielena, and Erik, and several men wearing dark clothes and tall hats.

“And to you as well,” Thomas greets, then says something quick and discreet with his fingers.

Rebekah inclines her head very slightly then paces into the room after him like a fucking tigress, moving to stand not quite directly in front of Julius with her arms hanging loose at her sides and her eyes on him. The others shuffle in with less certainty, in particular the unnamed gentlemen who all keep their hats on despite being indoors. (Silver’s hands instantly break into a sweat. He cannot even recall seeing men dressed this way before, but his hands remember.)

Thomas shuts the door and says, “Erik, to the window, keep watch. Marielena, encuentra algo de té en esta casucha.”

“Señor,” Marielena murmurs with a curtsy and shuffles into the kitchen. As she does so she passes by Silver and casts him a swift look of concern out of the corner of her eye. Silver wants to tell her to run, can’t understand why she hasn’t. (He knows. All these people, they love him so much. He should have shot himself instead of taking laudanum.)

“Now then, where is—ah, good.”

Flint has returned from the bedroom dragging the chest behind him. At the sight of the newcomers, confusion and fear flashes over his face before he can hide it again.

“Well?” Thomas says. “Open it.”

A muscle in Flint’s jaw clenches tight but he moves to obey, first kicking at the padlock on the chest (Why is there a padlock? They opened it before—did Flint put one back on?) then making a show of casting about for an implement. This, finally, sparks Silver into motion and he mutely holds up his crutch; after a moment Flint takes it from him and uses it to smash the padlock.

There’s a soft, mass inhale around the room as the lid is lifted and the jewels inside revealed. Thomas turns to Rebekah. “I presume one of these gentlemen is the appraiser of whom you spoke before?”

“Yes,” Rebekah says and turns to speak to one of the men who accompanied her. Not in Ladino; that would be too recognizable for someone who speaks Spanish, which Julius likely does.

Thomas steps to Julius, who still seems wary but is glancing frequently at the opened chest. “I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion of additional witnesses—I wished to contract with a third party who could verify the authenticity of the jewels, as experience teaches that one can never be too careful in dealing with Mr. Silver. There was no better eye for this matter to be found in the Colonies than among the Hebrew community. Nor,” he adds, seeming to make a show of lowering his voice and casting a glance over his shoulder, “quite so easily assured of their discretion, for they find little favor with the local authorities, and their presence here to do business today breaks the Sabbath of their own community. I presume you have a man of your own?”

Either Julius has brought an expert in gems with him or he pretends he has; one of his bravos steps forward. Together he and one of the Jewish men take a seat near the window, though they keep the curtains tightly drawn, and begin to look over the contents of the chest.

What proceeds is a mostly-silent and almost comical dance, as individual gems are plucked and scrupulously held aloft as they travel toward the window for judgment; other than that, no one approaches the chest by tacit agreement of all parties involved. Everyone keeps their hands far away from their pockets and their sleeves rolled up. Flint stands close at his side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed across his chest. Marielena re-enters the room from the kitchen, bearing a teacup that she silently brings to Thomas with a polite curtsy before shuffling her way to Erik’s side. Rebekah leaves off her staredown with Julius and moves to stand beside Thomas.

Thomas’ hands move so very slightly. Rebekah’s answer. If someone did not know to look for their hidden language, it could easily be overlooked. Silver doesn’t dare look at Julius to see if he is watching.

When their quick aside concludes, Lord Hamilton asks Rebekah in a low voice that is still perfectly audible to everyone who cares to listen, “How is your father, by the way? Has he recovered his health?”

 “Well enough. They were able to remove the worm successfully.”

Everyone pauses very slightly to look at her. Even Flint blinks.

“Ah,” Lord Hamilton says. “I am dearly glad to hear that. I myself discovered some fragments after visiting the privy, though I believe the matter resolved now. The city is struggling with an outbreak of parasitic worms,” he adds to Julius, who does not recoil; but his friend (so that one does speak English) appears less stalwart. Lord Hamilton continues. “They appear to live in the water supply, and from hence to the intestines of their hosts. At first they infected the livestock, and caused bloating and sometimes even internal ruptures. Poor sanitation then quickly transported the worms to mankind—the good Lord knows that I have written letters on that the subject of livestock pollution in our streets and waterways, and yet, the wisdom of the governorship prevailed. A tragic condition of living in civilization is that one cannot simply set matters aright on one’s own—one must have it approved by those who consider themselves superior in thought and thereafter, worms. Ah, pardon my manners. Tea?”

The man standing at Julius’ back actually blanches with horror.

Silver suppresses a hysterical giggle by sheer dent of will. At some point in the last few moments, his head seems to have detached from his body and is now floating gently along the ceiling, watching the goings-on while bumping against the rafters. His head, at least, appreciates the performance that Thomas is putting on. It’s clearly been some time since he stood in the center of a room and held it all within the palm of his hand, but he’s doing a fair job of making up for lost time.

“Oh no.” Setting down his teacup, Lord Hamilton waves a hand, laughing. “Pardon me, gentlemen—if you _boil_ the water first, it’s quite safe, I assure you. And even if one of you has already taken on a hidden passenger during your time here, the Native tribes of the region have developed an effective regimen to rid yourself of the blasted thing, one which I followed myself and can attest to its efficacy. It does require the generous consumption of a squash native to this area, one of those—yellow breeds? I believe it’s yellow?” He squints at Rebekah. “Of what am I thinking?”

“Pumpkin.”

“ _Ah_.” Lord Hamilton smiles at Julius and the others, saluting them with his teacup. From his vantage point Silver can see the liquid trembling very slightly. “Pumpkin seeds. Very useful. Marielena, trae más té.”

“Señor.” Marielena crosses the room again to the kitchen, pausing awkwardly to edge around the treasure chest and its steady operation.

Julius watches her go. Re-evaluating. He hasn’t the bullets for all of them—he could kill Flint and two others, probably Silver himself and Rebekah if he’s smart, Thomas if he’s not…but someone would surely escape and then the whole city would be roused by the threat of a group of freemen or escaped slaves or perhaps even an uprising. The newspapers would swiftly stir up fear. Every city in the colonies would have a bounty out for them.

But it is Marielena who he studies. (Why?) Silver’s fucking head won’t come down from the rafters long enough to figure it out. She returns with a teacup for Rebekah and Rebekah thanks her in Spanish, too. (Spanish…Spain. Oh. Thomas wants Julius to wonder if he has backing from Spain.)

The chest empties bit by bit. The examined goods are carefully apportioned into two piles, though there is some arguing amongst the Jewish men as to the size of each pile. (There is always arguing amongst Jewish people. That much, Silver remembers well.) The portion allotted to Julius disappears into papoose-like slings that Julius and his two bravos wear across their backs. (The one who speaks English has a familiar gleam in his eye. Julius will have to kill him later, or find himself killed and robbed.)

Once the chest has been emptied and a portion paid to the Sephardim for their service, Julius’ dark eyes land on Silver again. “And him?”

They turn to regard him: Julius, contemptuous, and Thomas a simulacrum of the same. The other Sephardim have clumped together near the door and seem to be studiously ignoring everything else in the room as they converse tensely with one another. They seem to be peppering Rebekah with questions, but she is impassive. Erik, at the window, glistens with visible flop sweat.

“I believe we shall see if Mr. Silver knows anything that might be of use to us,” Thomas says, and the implications hang heavy.

If Julius harbors any doubts as to the sincerity of that statement, he does not show it; instead he gestures to his bravos and moves towards the door, though he does pause a moment to address Erik in Twi. <”Would you come with us, young one? Only say the word and I will kill your masters, and take you elsewhere.”>

Erik looks at him blankly, not understanding the Twi. Julius seems to accept that as answer, for he leaves the building without another word. Rebekah leads the Sephardim out directly thereafter.

The door shuts and thus begins a very long, very slow exhalation. For the first few moments they merely look at one another, pretense dripping away to reveal the fear, anxiety, and incredulity underneath.

Flint is the first to break the silence in a low voice. “Thomas—”

“Shh, shush, Erik, please tell us when they’ve reached the head of the street.”

At the window, Erik keeps close watch. “They’re gone, turned right,” he finally reports. “Ms. Rebekah has turned left, and she’s taken Benjamin with her.”

In the door to the kitchen, Marielena stands with a teacup in her hand; she dumps its contents on the floor, sets the cup on Thomas’ bookshelf, and covers her eyes.

“It’s all right,” Thomas murmurs to her. “It’s all right, my dear, it worked. It worked.”

“I could fucking strangle you,” Flint says, choked.

“No, you can’t. You serve at my pleasure, remember?” Thomas sounds positively giddy. He presses a hand to his forehead. “Jesus. Jesus, it worked. What the _fuck_ is this tea?”

“It’s whiskey,” Marielena answers. “I couldn’t find anything else the right color.”

“We _have actual tea_.”

“I was panicking!” She’s started to giggle and claps her hand over her mouth.

“Well let me not then declare that—John? What—?”

Silver abruptly realizes that he is wheezing loudly, breathing _in in in_ and still not drawing enough air.

Arms clamp around him and heave him out of the chair. Voices clamoring but Flint has him, is physically carrying him from the parlor into the bedroom. His landing on the bed is hard enough to jolt his lungs and he exhales gratefully; but the next inhale won’t come. It’s as though he’s drowning on dry land.

From somewhere near the closed door, Flint says, “It didn’t happen.”

The words punch through the last of Silver’s strength. He screams through his fingers as it bursts forth. “ _It didn’t happen_ ,” Flint insists. Silver twists to escape, kicking at him, but Flint has always been a better fighter. He pins Silver down with the weight of his body.

Thrashing does not dislodge him, as weeks of bedrest have left Silver so fucking weak. He _sobs_ , trying to hold the sound and its successors inside his mouth. His attempts falter and shatter by piecemeal, turning into ugly whimpers as he chokes himself with his hands, before Flint denies him that escape as well and pins his arms to his sides.

Flint’s at his back, his arms and legs like vices around Silver’s chest and hips. “It didn’t happen,” he murmurs again and again.

-o-

Time passes. At some point Flint shifts, starting to move away, and Silver grabs hold of him. He stays. Voices drift in from outside and for a sick moment Silver fears that in the absence of Rebekah and her witnesses, Julius has returned; but it’s only Marielena and Thomas, exchanging goodbyes.

It grows darker in the room in fits and it occurs to Silver that he has not been quite present for parts of the day. Not sleeping, but simply not aware of time moving past. At some point Flint moves them up the bed to rest against the headboard without letting go of him. Silver thinks that without the stable anchor of Flint’s arms, he would simply slip away—though to where, he does not know.

A faint tap at the door announces Thomas, who comes bearing actual tea. Silver would have preferred the whiskey variety. Flint sits up to accept his teacup and this time Silver lets him go, preferring to lever himself upright. His arms tremble.

They both look over at him and he can’t bear it, drops his gaze to the blanket before he can see any recrimination or worse, the absence of recrimination.

Silver says, “I stole the letter from Julius in St. Martinique. I’d fled there after Madi and I parted ways in Bristol.”

“John—”

Silver continues, louder and determined. “The news of our separation had not yet reached the island and Julius greeted me as if I were still her agent. He finds me detestable and never wavered from telling me so but he and I had cooperated on the treaty, and he knew that I was…devoted to Madi.

“They had a treaty of their own. Half of the Maroons had remained behind on their hidden island, with Julius in command, but half had followed Madi to Jamaica, Bristol, wherever she lead. She’s been fighting the war on her own, you see, and their people divided between them. Mothers and children, split between those who wished to hide and those who wished to fight, yet were still bound to each other by blood and love. For their sakes, Julius and Madi worked together.

“It was under the auspices of this agreement that Julius revealed the contents of the letter to me, assuming that I still spoke for Madi. He’d taken it from a dead pirate who’d sought to take one of his people as bounty. G-d only knows its true origin. Julius proposed that I act as a cover, a role I also fulfilled in Bristol—a white man in Philadelphia would draw far less attention than a freeman. Then once we secured the treasure we would divide it between Madi’s group and his.

“We came to this agreement and then parted ways, him presuming that I would convey this message to Madi in order to gain her approval. He would not show me the letter, of course—he was too smart to trust me that much. But his lieutenant was not as smart, and easily struck unconscious.”

“In my mind I said, ‘I will take it all to Madi, and buy back her good graces.’ But that was a lie. I could not buy such a thing from someone like her, and I knew it even at the time. I simply didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that I intended to steal this treasure from the mothers and children and families that depend on Madi and Julius. I’ve done very little in my life that anyone might find commendable, but in all the cut throats and spilled blood, I think that might be the one thing that I can never forgive of myself.”

There’s a moment of silence. Silver is wearing one pair of breeches, with no stockings below the knee. It’s the only item of clothing that he can share with them, and then only with Flint; Thomas is too long by half. Then Flint says, “That has not happened, either. At this very moment, Julius is taking his half of the treasure home to—”

“ _Do you think that fucking matters_ ,” Silver screams. He flinches away from them, shaking his head, then scrambles up onto his crutch. “Give it—give whatever’s left to Erik. He can buy his mother’s freedom. For the love of G-d, _don’t touch me_.”

Bolting off the bed, he limps his way across the parlor and straight out the front door in his breeches and undershirt, as if he is on the deck of the _Walrus_ instead of in the middle of Philadelphia. Fortunately, by now it’s well into the night, and anyone who might take offense at his state of undress is indoors with their families, their loved ones, fathers and mothers to children, brothers to their sisters, little dollies beside the children in bed. (He used to wish so desperately for a family to love him. If ever one did, he doesn’t remember what that felt like.)

(Was it this? Is it the constant, agonized fear? That cannot be so.)

His bare foot reaches grass and he drops to his knees in the little hillock south of their street. They’d sat here a fortnight ago, before the second fever, and Thomas had told him their hearts were his. So many people have granted him the same. (Is that love? A bloody row of organs that disappear down his gullet? It has always been so _easy_ to make people like him, love him, die for him…so why do his hands shake this way?)

The still sky above him makes his head spin. The stars should be moving, shifting with the rock of a ship. Turning his gaze away, he drops his head into his hands.

He had expected (hoped) to be followed, but no one sits down next to him. Perhaps they have finally listened—but he doesn’t want that, either, he wants their love, their attention, fucking _anything_ they will give him.

He must lose time again, because the air around him suddenly feels cooler, dew growing on the grass. If he stays here perhaps the water will cover him, too, and he’ll simply dissolve into the ground. He’s imagined that happening at sea—like his leg, cast overboard and sinking slowly into the dark waters—but never on solid ground. Flowers growing in his beard, moss on his still fingers. He thinks he wouldn’t mind.

Except that isn’t at all how life happens. He’s hungry. His knees ache. There is nothing peaceful about this. He wipes a weary hand over his eyes, wincing as it dislodges another scab. He needs another fucking bath.

He picks himself up and limps home.

There’s a faint light in the window as he draws near. Silver pauses a long moment outside, suddenly adverse to going in for entirely different reasons: he’s spent the last three fucking weeks staring at the same walls. For as much joy as this little hovel has contained, he’ll be happy to leave the place for good.

Seated at the table, Flint looks up from a book. He’s writing by the light of one little candle—taking a tally, Silver realizes, like any good accountant after a haul. At some point Erik had returned home, for he is lying beside the fireplace on his pallet, fast asleep. Perhaps in deference to the poor boy’s rest, Flint says nothing: merely stands, closing the little book that he was using as a ledger, and holds out his hand.

The bedroom is dark. Thomas lies on his side with his eyes closed, but he quickly sits up when they enter. He, too, says nothing, nor does he reach for Silver. Flint disrobes slowly, hanging up each item of clothing carefully. They have so little left, sacrificed to Silver’s illness. (Sacrificed to him.)

He can’t stand there all night, though, so he leans his crutch against the foot of the bed and unties his breeches, letting Flint take them, fold them, and place them on the little table next to the basin for tomorrow.

The small white feather still rests on the table, its edges curled soft against the fabric of his breeches.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

-A Colonial Gentleman’s clothing - <https://www.history.org/history/clothing/men/mglossary.cfm>

-“Father Shopona” is an alternate name for Babalú-Ayé, the god of smallpox who is both worshipped and feared by the Yoruba people. They would avoid saying his real name for fear of drawing his attention and/or invoking his wrath.

-“Never esteem anything as of advantage to you that would make you break your word or lose your self-respect” is another Marcus Aurelius quote.


End file.
